Postal the Novel (book preview)
by AlisaBogodarova
Summary: 1st chapter from officially licensed Postal Novel. If you like, please check out the full version on amazon (google "postal kindle alisa bogodarova")


"Postal"

by Alisa Bogodarova

All characters and other elements in this book are owned by RWS Inc. and appear with permission. All other characters and elements are owned by the Author. No part of this book may be reproduced without the Author's permission.

© Alisa Bogodarova 2014. All rights reserved.

[ The novel is currently available on Postal-Special-Delivery-Book-ebook/dp/B017DWXIF6/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1446838302&sr=1-3&keywords=postal ]

* * *

 **PART ONE**

"SPECIAL DELIVERY"

Chapter One

"The Robbery"

The sun reflects in the window of a red car with no logo. The rays engulf the cold steel, but cannot warm it. The car stands still. The driver's seat is empty.

The blazing star descends toward the horizon. The car shows darkly against the orange sky, its headlights like two unblinking eyes fixed on the highway in the middle of the desert.

The air cools. The clouds grow darker by the minute.

Finally, the sun has set. The engine's roar and the clatter of metal hooves echo across the realm of sand. The highway trembles as the red car zooms forth, a giant equine form running by its side.

It was a cold night in the desert. A few run-down plywood houses stood far apart on the sand flat near the highway. In one of them, the TV was on in the living room.

"Today in the news," the announcer began, "more protests took place after the government refused to grant political asylum to individuals practicing self-immolation. The retirement-home rapist is still at large. The victims refuse to identify the perpetrator and ask to close the case. A dry-cleaning firm in Nebraska was sentenced to pay one of its clients $30 million for moral damage."

But there was no one watching it. The armchair in front of the TV stood empty, littered with empty beer cans. Only in one of the bedrooms upstairs, a deep male voice suddenly asked: "Who are you?"

That voice belonged to a tall young man with deep-set emerald eyes, messy fiery-red hair, a goatee, and a small golden earring. Alas, he had no name. Everyone called him "Postal Dude."

As he stood looking out his bedroom window, Postal Dude saw a red car racing against what looked like a giant horse. But after he rubbed his eyes and looked out again, there was nothing but darkness.

"I really should go," he said, yawning.

He stretched and went downstairs. The youth turned off the TV, then entered the kitchen to get something to eat. But the fridge was empty.

He went back up to his bedroom and changed into a black T-shirt, some old jeans, and a black leather jacket.

Suddenly, he heard rapid hoofbeats somewhere far away. Postal Dude carefully turned off the lights and crept up to the window, squinting at the dark plain.

The pounding of hooves grew faster until it slowly faded in the distance. A cow mooed hoarsely nearby. Then, everything went quiet. Postal Dude shuddered.

"I have to go," he muttered, put on his backpack, and went out.

* * *

Morning came in the small rural town of Paradise, Arizona. The local residents prepared for another torrid July day. The miners, farmers, and factory workers were the first to rise, as always. By the time they got to work, the children were up and playing outside.

Paradise was one of those towns where you could always run into someone you knew. It had a small downtown, where the tallest buildings were rarely more than four stories tall, an industrial district, and scattered suburbs. The main street was full of giant cacti, stores, and bakeries that were so highly esteemed by the local police force that there were signs everywhere promising fines for abusive treatment of baked goods.

That hot July morning, there were two officers standing outside the Lucky Ganesh with a box full of doughnuts. They were eating greedily when a young man raced by them and almost knocked them over.

"Whoa!" the first officer cried. "Did you see that? I bet that's one of 'em robbers from this mornin'."

"Naw," said the second, "they're probably still beating up that old guy. Hey, why we only got one doughnut with strawberry icing? I ordered two! Fucking foreigner!"

Suddenly, a fleshy farmer in overalls ran out from around the corner, brandishing a shotgun.

"Just wait, ya son of a bitch!" he roared. "I'll shoot your ass off!" But he halted when he saw the officers.

"Well, Joe," the second officer sneered, "which nigger you wanna shoot up today for supposedly looking at your girls?"

"Very funny!" the farmer snapped. "I'm after that young fella! He was trespassin' on my farm!"

"Joe, how many times do I have to tell you? The law says you can shoot strangers only when they are inside your house. Not five steps away, not running down Main Street. Inside. So if you wanna kill someone, invite 'em over. And now, please beat it before I have to take you in for carrying a gun."

The first officer stood giggling. The farmer glared at him, spat on the ground, then turned around and left. At the same time, the young man the farmer had been chasing—none other than Postal Dude—was already on his way home.

* * *

The suburb where Postal Dude lived—a tiny, poor neighborhood on a sand plain near a mountain range—was by the eastern highway leading into Paradise. While the youth was out running from Farmer Joe, two imposing men in black suits walked up to his house. They were obviously not from Paradise, for no local would ever wear a suit on such a hot day, or any day, for that matter.

The men stopped and glanced over their shoulders.

"This kid is like some illegal immigrant," said the first. "No birth certificate, forged driver's license, counterfeit passports."

"Crafty fella," the second nodded.

"That's alright, can't be too crafty for us."

They walked up on the porch and knocked. When no answer came, the first man took out a small Bass Sniffer radar device. Its screen was blank.

"No one's home," he said.

"Well then, no point coming in," the second one said as he pointed to the neighboring house. "Let's ask that man on the porch. What's he, an ex-miner?"

The first man looked at the neighbor in question. "No," he corrected, "this one used to be a mechanic. Now a simple drunk. Dirty socks, means no wife. Likes fishing. A bit senile, but friendly."

They walked up to the old man sitting on his porch. The first black-suited man smiled and said: "Good day, sir. What a beautiful town this is, and rightly named too: Paradise."

The old man made a sound akin to the mooing of an angry cow.

"Yep, our little hell—Paradise—is a beautiful hole, no doubt!" he guffawed.

"Do you by chance know the kid who lives in that house over there?"

The old man sipped his beer and took a long hard look at the two strangers.

"I sure do!" he answered. "My girlfriend been hangin' with 'is dad, until she got run in. She's in women's prison, like my sister!"

"Do you know when the boy is supposed to come home?"

"Huh? How the hell would I know that? The only thing I know fer sure is this beer tastes more like shit every year, and it ain't gettin' cheaper!" the old man said as he opened a new beer can and poured some beer on the porch. "Phew, no plutonium in this un either. Barney really oughta confess 'bout his little slip-up at the brewery!"

The two men thanked him and headed toward Paradise.

"Let's take a walk," the first man said. "We'll pay that kid another visit later."

"What did you say they call him?" asked the second.

"Postal Dude."

"Postal Dude? Ha! I want to ask him where he got that name before we rip his eyes out."

At that moment, the second man looked back at the house and saw someone go in through the back door.

"That must be him now," he said.

"Well," the other man smiled, "that was a short walk."

* * *

Postal Dude did not even bother to close the back door after him. He threw his backpack down, took out a can of soda, and leaned against the wall. The foam ran down his goatee and dripped onto his old, faded jeans as he drank.

The youth felt uneasy, but the cold drink calmed him. Postal Dude shook the sand off his favorite T-shirt, which had a silver alien head on the front. He looked around dozily, then sank into the armchair. He had successfully gotten away with robbing the farmer.

But Postal Dude never wanted to steal. This was the first real robbery in his 16 years of life. He still remembered what he heard every Sunday mass as a little boy, and tried hard not to break the Ten Commandments.

He sat in silence, legs sprawled out, and thought about everything that happened over the last few months. Even back in March, he would not have robbed anyone. Back in March, things were completely different…


End file.
